Dearly, Beloved (23 page)

Parliament was hideous, and its hideousness was a point of New Victorian pride. Not only did it sport hundreds of real marble statues of dubious symbolism and stretches of pretty, but pointless stonemasonry, it was crowned by a holographic lion and unicorn locked in battle, the pair of them half as large as the sprawling building beneath their feet.

As our carriage rattled past, I thrust my upper body out of the window and saluted. “Your obedient son!” The other boys crowed with laughter.

My cohorts for the evening had proven far more capable than the ones I’d been tasked with before—especially the one waiting for our carriage on the corner of George Street, hat off, his signal that the bakery was dark and empty and thus ready to be blown up. There hadn’t been anyone waiting there last Saturday. Unwilling to drive by the bakery, we circled around, and I ended up tossing the bomb into a rubbish bin in an alley. It seemed safer than driving all the way to the river with live ordnance in my lap, like we planned. I’d lost my composure.

For all I knew, though, the boys with me
were
the ones who’d accompanied me before. Between the beaked masks and the voice
morphers installed in them, I had no idea who any of my “Brothers” actually were, ignorance casting a spell of protection over all of us. It made the other boys rowdy, fearless, and I drank so I could act that way, too.

“I still can’t believe the Murder actually got you a
bomb. Two
bombs,” one of the Brothers said as he pulled me out of the rain and back inside the carriage. I stumbled over the large burlap sack on the floor as I made my way to my seat. The mask obscured my peripheral vision.

“You’ve got some balls to go after a bunch of living sympathizers that way. Can you imagine? Zombie filth living beside a bakery? It’s a public health threat, that’s what it is.”

I laughed, even as my stomach twisted. I had to keep laughing, had to keep joking, because I wasn’t sure what I was feeling—it didn’t have a convenient name, like
regret
or
anger
. It was a disconnected feeling, like floating in a bubble of dissipated sensation. Almost euphoric, minus the actual euphoria. Like my mind had somehow disavowed my own body.

The deed was done. Payback had been delivered. Pamela Roe had to pay for what she’d done to me, true enough. She’d run me ragged, put my life in danger, humiliated me—put her
hands
on me. After all I’d done for her. And she was so
low
that I could enact little social revenge. I’d had no choice but to fight back with literal fire.

Now I could focus on the end game. In fact, I could
only
focus on the end game, which lent it solidity in my mind. Made it seem real. The plan hadn’t actually seemed
real
before.

The burlap sack lurched to one side, suddenly alive and rolling like a maggot. I kicked it, the reaction purely born of fear, and it stilled with an all-too-human sob.

“I hate it when the entertainment gets uppity,” my Brother grumbled.

“Just enjoy the ride, gents,” I said, settling back. “Haven’t the rotters taught you to treasure every second?”

One of the masked boys cracked up. “Oh, yeah. They’re so wise now. So holier-than-thou. Is that why they burn so well, you think? All that holy fire? Or is it because hell so desperately wants them back?”

I kept laughing.

The pub we were meeting in that evening was a dingy little hole in the wall below street level, one step removed from the sewer. Water from the storm drains crept in, beading down the walls. The bartender and his girls kept their faces carefully neutral as they served us, their blaring sound system providing us all with excuses.

As a courtesy to them we all deposited our weapons on a single table, slightly out of the way. The little collection was impressive—guns, bats, even a sword, of all things. We shed our outer coverings, but kept the masks. There were about thirty Brothers in attendance, but I had no idea how many were actually involved overall.

I kept an eye out for a bottle green velvet frock coat, and moved when I saw it. Nobody could say whose face resided beneath that particular mask, but everybody knew him by his jacket. He was #1712, our record keeper, and a one-man dealer of almost everything illegal. Rumor held that he also knew the identity of #0, the shadowy figure who’d supposedly started the whole thing. For all that legend-building, #0, like everyone else, was merely a rich boy in a mask. If he was even involved anymore. The first letter I’d received had included that suggestion:
Even I will not know who you are, or if you are involved, or ever become uninvolved. Neither will you know who I am, or if I ever stand at your side. I may send these letters and walk away, to watch you all from afar
.

Brother Green Jacket nodded when he saw me approaching. I’d worn a plain gold oval cravat pin to aid in recognition, as I’d told him I would in my note. He indicated that I ought to follow him through an iron-studded doorway, and I did so, drink in hand.

“Brother,” he said once we were alone, his voice computerized. There was little light, but going by the bottles stacked around us, we were in a storage room. “I take it you were successful this time?”

“You’ll see it on the news when you get home.”

“Wonderful. I’m glad you wanted to go big. After all, you’re asking quite a lot of me. Of the Murder. A special escort, a special venue … that your Brothers not be there. I respect your vision, but it’s rather complicated to set up.”

I knew it was. That’s why I’d joined up. My dreams were far too grand and risky to enact on my own. “Are you sure the police won’t be able to trace the bombs?”

“I trust my supplier.” He gestured into the darkness. As I watched, a large form materialized. Once it neared what little light filtered in around the edges of the door, I could see that it was a big man in a grimy coat, a mop of curly hair framing his wind-burned face. “As well as this fellow. He can find anyone.”

“Not just find. Anyone can
find
, I deliver. Alive. Have for over twenty years.” The man gave a shallow nod. “They call me the Ratcatcher.”

“Good, because I know right where the rat is,” I said, reaching into my jacket to grab two more envelopes. I offered one to him. “Unfortunately, that happens to be with a lot of other people. And I need him in one piece, in a secure location. It’ll do me no good to attack him on the street.”

Ratcatcher took the envelope and turned it over without opening
it. Even if he wanted to look at the contents, the lack of light prevented him from doing so. “Couple thou in here, by the weight of it,” he commented.

“You get the other half when I’ve got the bastard’s putrid guts on my hands.”

“Dead? This is a lot of money for a dead guy.”

“Dead, but big. And well trained. Army man. And he’s not the only one I want.” He lifted his eyes. “There’s a girl. Living. I want her, too. Not a hair on her head is to be harmed, do you understand? She’s coming along to watch. I doubt she’d come with me, or I’d handle it myself.”

The big man mulled this over and spat on the floor. “Delivery date?”

“Twenty-seventh. A week from now.”

“Not a lot of time.”

“Exactly. I want to get this over with.” Brother Green Jacket chuckled. At the sound of it, I felt the sudden urge to lay him out. My skin prickled as I recalled all the ways this could go wrong, all the horrible things that could happen.

I repressed them. All of them.

“You got it, m’lord.”

“Good.” I handed the other envelope to Brother Green Jacket. “There’s your money. Thank you for the delivery.”

Nodding at both of the men, I saw myself out, my heart roaring like a zeppelin engine. Behind me, I heard Green Jacket say, “I’ll be in touch. I need to arrange someplace quiet to take them. That one wants to do things a little differently. I’m only going along with it because what he suggests is … unique. And he brings the money.”

It was over. Nothing more to do but drink.

About half an hour later the bar workers went home, leaving the keys by the cash register. Through my gin-fueled haze I heard the upstairs door being kicked in, the laughter of my
Brothers, the scrabbling and screaming of our latest victim. I knew what was coming. I’d seen it before, and I didn’t much care to see it again. But something compelled me to stay.

For such an important ritual, there was little ceremony. Brother Green Jacket took a place along the wall. One of the masked lads stood on a rickety wooden chair and yelled, “Our Brother #38999 becomes a full-fledged member of the Murder tonight!” The Brother in question, slight beneath his burgundy brocade jacket, hoisted his glass high as the others bellowed their congratulations. Furniture and feet scraped against the concrete floor as they cleared a space around him. He stood, conveniently enough, above the floor’s drainage grating.

The Brothers I’d rode with brought the bag down. We’d snatched the zombie off the street right before hitting the Roes. I had no idea who he was—only that he’d been unlucky enough to shuffle past our carriage in the alleyway where we’d been waiting for darkness to fall. We’d been assigned the responsibility of bringing a “party favor” back with us.

Together they unhooked the belts used to keep the sack closed and pulled it off, revealing a middle-aged man. Over his nondescript, working-class clothing he wore a leather back brace. “No! No! Please!”

The graduating Brother slammed back the last of his drink, holding his mask above his lips to do so, before shoving it back down. He then turned toward the table full of weapons, rocking slightly on his feet.

“Gun! Gun!” someone chanted.

“Fire!” someone else called. “I’ve a lighter, and we’ve got plenty of rotgut to use as fuel. Tie him down and watch him roast!”

The young man in the brocade jacket seemed ready to lend an ear to his compatriots, laughing at each of their suggestions, his body bending. But when he finally made his selection, he chose the sword. Sense of tradition, this one. I wondered who he was.
I wondered if he’d pulled the ridiculous-looking thing out of some wall display in his own family manor.

The Brother turned to the zombie, hefting the weapon with two inexperienced hands. The zombie’s voice became shrill. “My name is Emanuel! Emanuel Delgado! I have—”

“For my family!” Brother Graduate screamed as he brought the weapon down. There was no hesitation, no consideration.

No strength.

Well. I’d never seen a man attempt to speak with a blade buried in the middle of his face before. Brother Graduate’s blow had been true, but lacking force. The zombie’s eyes bulged, almost pulsing, his jaw shaking as he tried to scrape the severed bone down the sword’s edge. He was trying to open his mouth to talk, to continue his pleading. I recalled losing a hammer in a zombie’s head during the failed attempt to save Roe’s little slug of a brother. At least that zombie had gone down.

“Get him again! You didn’t get the brain fully!” someone yelled.

“No! Toy with him!”

Bored, I headed for the stairs. The screams of the dying dead man followed me, nipping at my heels. Once outside, I removed my mask and breathed out, trying to chase away the stink of alcohol. The air felt cold against my cheeks.

In a week I’d have to do the same thing.

My phone went off, its chime bright in the darkness. I pulled it out and flicked it open, only to find a message from Vespertine.

I just got a text about an explosion in bakery on George St. Isn’t that where R lives?

Suddenly sober as a church mouse, I set my phone down on the flagstones and leaned back against the building, trying not to throw up. She’d remembered. Or had she?

My drunken confessions had freaked me out, upon first remembering them. I thought I might’ve done myself in. Vespertine had been right—I’d found the finger in my pocket the next day, the ring on my hand, and immediately thrown both into the fire. Vespertine hadn’t said a word until now, though. I’d thought myself safe.

How could I play this?

Threats sprung first to mind. I grabbed for my phone.

Your house has security cameras. I have money to hire hackers. If it’s digital, it can’t be erased. The world will see you and me together, alone.

There. Maybe I was slapping my ace down far too early, but it was the only thing I could think of. Hopefully it’d be the only thing I needed. Hopefully, even if she had no idea what I was talking about, it’d be a big enough threat to force her to shut her mouth and never contact me again. Stupid, stupid women …

But then, the girl surprised me with an ace of her own.

I don’t want to out you. I want in. I want to see R and D hurt. How can I help?

This … I could work with.

The drive back was noisy, but Bram and I didn’t contribute to the conversation. Around me, the others jabbered and swore; beneath me, Bram was withdrawn.

“Are you
sure
you’ve never heard of these people before, Dr. I Apparently Break Laws Like Other People Skip Out on Tipping?” Renfield demanded.